


Subtlety is the Name of the Game

by Reiya_Wakayama



Series: Give In, Oh Sweet Surrender [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spoilers, Voyeurism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slash, J/OMC, He thought Sherlock knew from the first moment they met. Obviously, there are some things even Sherlock needs a clue on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtlety is the Name of the Game

**Author's Note:**

> So at first, I hadn’t decided on it, but this has now turned into a miniseries, lol. It will have maybe one or two more to it. This could probably stand alone, but it would make a little more sense if you read the first story ‘Lose Yourself.’ Again, not versed in BDSM/D/s so don’t hate me if I do something wrong. Enjoy.

Four months since that faithful night. He’s made a schedule about it, only going every couple of days, seeing it as the metaphorical crutch he has made of it. He already has to rely on this cane; he doesn’t need something else to rely on to stay sane, though it does help.

When he bumps into Mike Stamford in the park, he’s surprised that someone from before the military still recognizes him. He feels like it’s been decades instead of only years, like he should have changed beyond all recognition.

“I’m not the John Watson you knew.” He meant it. Compared to the bright young med student he’d been back in uni, he was a total one eighty now. In the back of his mind, he wonders what Mike would think of him, if he knew what John did to remain sane. It would certainly offend his very British ideals.

He keeps it to himself though. Instead he allows himself to be led, intrigued a little about this man that Mike talks about with such regard. His first impression of Sherlock as he lays eyes on him is that of a large bird, hunched over the microscope.

The incredulous feeling that wells up inside him as Sherlock speaks starts to overwhelm him. The man is a genius, a tactless one, but a genius all the same. He’s like a whirlwind in human form, blowing through everyone, destroying everything in his path to get to the grains of hidden truth and then putting it back together, all in a glance.

He doesn’t realize that he’s already decided to share a flat with the man until he’s gone, his parting words still ringing in his ears as Mike just shrugs in a ‘what can I say’ sort of way. He’s half way home before he realizes that, for the first time in a while, the fog on his life has been lifted outside of Shera’s place. It’s a shock to his system and he mulls it over for the rest of the evening, eating takeout and staring blankly at his computer, his blog still empty.

~*~

He listens to Sherlock dissect his entire life, his relationships, his careers, or ex-careers at the moment, and the irony of it hits him like a bag of hammers to the gut. Sherlock, the man who sees everything about him, misses the biggest secret of he has ever had. He feels like he has huge blazing neon lights proclaiming what he does. That this genius of a man should miss something so obvious shows how much his intelligence lacks.

Sherlock notices things that are not obvious to most people, constantly living in amazement when people, ordinary, _dull_ as he puts it, don’t live up to his standards. But what would be most obvious to John, is a mystery to the man. This knowledge leaves him feeling incredulous and staggered.

Of course what Sherlock lacks in common sense, he makes up with that mind of his. John is blown away by his deductions, unable to stop his mouth as he complements the man. “Brilliant.” That Sherlock is shocked by his praise shows how much has happened to him and John wonders how many people have scorned the man, dubbed him as strange, a ‘Freak’ as Donovan puts so sweetly and he feels heat in his chest that no one but Lestrade and a few others have recognized the greatness in this tall slip of humanity.

Then of course, Sherlock leaves him at the crime scene, no cab or any idea of where he is and the amazement turns to annoyance and makes him want to wring the bloody idiot’s neck. Instead he figures out where he is, ignores Donovan’s final warnings and limps off…only to be politely, but unavoidably kidnapped by a voice on the telephone.

Mycroft Homes, though he doesn’t know it at the time, is an intimidating man, for those easily intimidated. To John, he’s about as scary as his drill sergeant from boot camp, minus the yelling, a looming presence, but easily gotten over after the first meeting.

But he sees knowledge in his eyes, knowledge of him in every aspect, and he knows, in the marrow of his bones, knows that Mycroft has seen through him to his core and seen more than even Sherlock could have seen. Nothing is hidden from those piercing gaze.

He’s not afraid of him knowing though. It would take enough money, power handed over, or life or death of himself or Sherlock to get him to reveal anything about John. Even to Sherlock. The fact that he understands him on so fundamental a level, that he knows about the dreams he has and the longing in his heart to return to that large expanse of sand and sun and rivers of blood, make him shiver.

But he puts on his mask of indifference, stopping only to grab his gun on the way home and directing the driver back to 221b Baker St. The flat seems surreal after the warehouse and he’s snappish due to his unbalanced emotions. He forces himself to focus and pull himself together.

~*~

He’s never felt this alive except in Shera’s place. His heart is pumping a mile a minute, adrenalin slipping like silver mercury through his body, heightening everything around him as they chase the cab. The awkward situation at Angelo’s is long forgotten, blown away in the rush of wind through his lungs and hair.

The fact that the man in the cab is not their killer doesn’t even dampen his mood. The fog is gone completely, all thanks to this insane, idiot of a man. He feels laughter bubbling in his chest the whole sprint back to Baker St., let out at random moments. As they stand there, giggling in the hallway, for one absurd moment, he wants to kiss Sherlock, thank him for everything and nothing. He doesn’t though.

The fact that Sherlock has his own dirty secrets doesn’t surprise him, or not as much as he watches the officers ruffle through Sherlock’s things. Sherlock’s frustration is palpable as he thinks the cogs and wheels of his mind whirring as fast as possible as tries to keep one step ahead of their killer. He can almost hear the click of the metaphorical light flipping on his mind as he figures it out, puts all the pieces in the right order.

None of them suspect a thing as he steps out until John looks out of the window, seeing him slide into the back of an indistinguishable cab. As the locator program finally comes back on, the pieces finally come together. Except, he’s too slow, can feel the clock running out even as he hails his own cab, chasing an idiotic genius through London to who knows where.

His blood is pumping again, adrenalin slippery as an eel in his veins, but instead of a feeling of freedom, he feels dread, dread that he will be too late, that after he’s finally found someone who can lift the fog, he will be forced to lose it all over again.

Sherlock is wrong about one thing. It wasn’t a sense of morals that led him to pulling the trigger. It was selfishness. He did it for himself, to keep what he had so desperately sought since his return from the war and if he’s being honest with himself, since he joined the army. Mycroft was right, he missed the war, but not because it made him feel useful, it was the thrill of it all, the adrenalin that was always coursing through his veins and he realizes he just as bad as Sherlock.

But he hides it behind his usual mask, lets people think what they will. Sherlock is safe and he has what he was after, both of them do, to a point. Even the revelation that Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother does not bother him. He alive and life is clear and for now, he’s going to enjoy it.

~*~

It’s three weeks before he returns to Shera’s place. He’d fought it as long as he could, but the fog had returned. None of the cases that followed were enough to make his blood sing like it did that first night, Sherlock solving them quickly and easily, not needing to chase after someone with the New Scotland Yard so close at hand. Lestrade wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock and have him on a short a leash as he could, which wasn’t very short compared to others.

So finally, he gives up. It’s a Friday afternoon; Sherlock has some experiment or other on the kitchen table that has kept him busy all day. It is easy really. He grabs his coat, saying he’s going out to the pub and tells him not to stay up for him. Sherlock just gives a dismissive wave, too focused to notice any falsehood.

He does stop at the pub for about an hour, letting the fumes and the noise sooth him some as he drinks a couple of pints. Might as well be thorough when it comes to Sherlock. The sun is still up, but closing in on the horizon, lengthening shadows as he leaves, hailing a taxi and giving the memorized address.

It’s a bit further from his new address then from his old flat, but the light is still out as the cab pulls over. He pays the fare and watches it drive off before crossing the street. He hesitates momentarily when he looks up and sees the CCTV trained on the street and he can tell Mycroft already knows he’s here. Giving a mental shrug, he continues on, ringing the bell and nodding in a polite hello to Hale, the guard on duty for the evening and makes his way in.

Andrew answers at his knock, always impeccable in his suit. “Ah, Doctor Watson, it’s been awhile.” He holds the door open for him and lets him through.

“Hello Andrew.” He hands him his coat. “It has been a while. Been busy getting settled into my new flat and finding work. Everything is well here I hope?”

“As it ever is.” The butler’s dry humor always seemed to come out only around him and he smiled at the man as he made his way into the main room. “Would you like anything?” He asks as he reemerges from the coat room.

“No, thank you.” There are a few others in the room; he knows their faces but not their names. He nods in hello.

The sound of heels on wood draws his eyes and he smiles as Shera makes her way down the grand staircase that takes up one side of the room. “John.” She smiles warmly, enveloping him in a warm hug. In her heels, she’s almost as tall as Sherlock and has to bend down. Her clothes billow around him, red silk and brown lace, and a floral scent wafting from her skin. “It’s good to see you.”

~*~

He shudders as the thin strip of leather comes down across the back of his shoulders. The night has barely begun and already he is sweating, muscles alternating between cramping up and trembling as all that keeps him is the edge of a bed. His mind is deliciously blank, the fog that he’d been fighting against gone. He feels sweat collecting underneath the collar around his throat. Since he has started coming here, it has come to represent this place. When he puts it on, he is able to become this, submissive, bending under the will of those who chose to dominate over him, but when it comes off, his other side reasserts itself. It is his switch and he guards it closely.

Another crack and he feels a welt rise red across his arse and around his hip. Punishment for letting his mind wonder. He was supposed to be counting each snap. “Eight.” He breaths out and can feel eyes on him. His first demonstration and the feeling of being watched, being judged by the others as something hot and dirty unfurling in his abdomen, making him pant harder.

His hands are unbound and they jerk, wanting to clutch the smooth sheets underneath his palms, but he has his orders. No movement, he must remain still. Another crack, this time around his ribs, flicking across his chest to land with a stinging blow on a sensitive nipple. He grits his teeth, keeping his body in place. “Nine.” He chokes out as his cock throbs, the leather strap wrapped around it making it ache bitter sweetly.

The last one lands crosswise from the one before, curling around him again over his shoulder and strikes the puckered scar tissue there. He can’t hold back a gasp as the shock rockets through him, his body trying to take the final step into bliss and being denied again, his whole body quivering with pent up need and want. He can barely speak around the sensation as he locks his jaw to keep from making any more noise than necessary. “T-ten.”

The light pattering of clapping announces that it is over and he collapse onto the bed, breathing hard only to jump back up as the whip cracks above his head, but not landing. He’s already asked for no marks to be made where they will show, that includes his face and neck. “I did not tell you to move yet.” He bows his head, returning to his previous position.

Gordon walks up, steps easy and casual. He’s panting heavily, unable to catch his breath through the waves of pleasure that wash through him still, but he can still hear him kneel behind him. “Do you have any idea what you look like, John? The fact that no one has ever noticed this side of you is a shame. You are amazing.”

Strong, calloused hands slide around his neck, tilting his head back and he loses control of his body, melding his back against his chest, head lying on his shoulder limply, and breath hot against his tanned neck. “You did so well, John. Performed just as I wanted you to.” More warmth spreads through him from those words and he can’t stop the needy whine that escapes his throat.

Gordon’s arms snake around his body, one hand traveling up to tweak his abused nipple, the other sliding down, skirting around his engorged erection, the blood pooled in it turning it from red to near purple as he strains against the cock strap.

His back arches as a warm hand curls around him, stroking once, twice. “Come for me, John.” There is a snap as the clasp is undone and then everything whites out, a gasp escaping his body as his body rushes like a freight train for completion and hits him with the force of the impact of one. He can only hold on to the strong arms around him as he rides out his orgasm to the end.

He comes to in Gordon’s lap, head resting against his chest as he runs soothing fingers through his sweat dampened hair. His heart rate and breath are still fast, but he’s come to enough to notice that the room is empty save for the two of them. He stirs languidly, his joints so loose only after such a mind blowing orgasm. Someone must have brought something for them, because he clean of any semen, though there are still traces of it on the floor and bed he hand been bent over.

“Easy, John.” Gordon’s voice is a low rumble in his chest that vibrates more through him than is heard. He rubs against soft chest hair, high enough on endorphins and adrenalin to let himself go like this. “Ready to get up?” He asks him.

“Yes.” They raise slowly, Gordon supporting him until he can get his knees to cooperate enough to stop going out on him. His limp is gone, though it hasn’t bothered him for weeks, his shoulder only remembers the sharp clean pain of the whip, not the old ache from the bullet that had pierced him. They make their way out of the room. The night is still young for the two of them.

~*~

The flat is dark as he enters it. Nothing appears to have been blown up by Sherlock’s experiment. No cops going through their things. No brothers who are secretly trying to take over the world are inside, or sisters wanting to embarrass him. No Sherlock in the living room, kitchen or bathroom. He may be in his room, but John is too tired and his back is a dull, but pleasurable ache, so he just shrugs and continues up the steps to his own room.

He strips down to his boxers, pulling a loose but soft t-shirt from his drawer and pulls it on gentle so as not to aggravate the welts on his back. Gordon had rubbed a soothing crème over them to bring the swelling down, but they were still tender.

Sliding into bed, he wonders, offhandedly, when Sherlock will notice. The fact that he wasn’t in was just luck on his part. Eventually, he will notice and he wonders how the man will take it. Shrugging mentally, he sinks into the soft sheets and mattress on his stomach. Maybe he’ll start leaving hints, something subtle, that even Sherlock could see. It would certainly make things interesting. He sighs, eyes growing heavy and his last thought is that he hopes they get a case soon, for his and Sherlock’s sake.

 **End.**


End file.
